sick of not remembering what’s important.
i match each martian melody like a fine-tuned instrument —
but i always cut it a little too sharp.
sardonic spontaneity and stationary sanctuary
seep in some sapphic, sapphire flame —
seductive and godless.
broken hinges make way
for no end of eyes prying over shoulders
and lips licked in anticipation.
i have belonged fully to myself
only in the emptiest of moments,
adoring the concept of someone so much like you
but somehow not you at all.
yet there is something undiscovered about it —
a glaucomal glint in the green eye
of a famished fox;
[i still see them in the woods
when i feel most alone.]
the grim-scale trace of mistakes
purpling all over my neck.
vehemently, i position myself on the side of love,
spitting in the face of how-it-usually-turns-out,
letting go of a hope that was no longer keeping me
there are two sides to you:
one is perpetually in shadow,
smoldering and sweating through the bedsheets.
and one floats above,
bouncing a holy, hedonic light into frame.
she is sordid,
constricted in a cushioned shell of
honeysuckle and jasmine, all
i want to call on you as a mother:
nurturing, de-curing sensitivity to a singular distaste —
or any one likeness of it —
benevolent and full-cheeked,
stooping and coddling my flesh as if my heart
was the only thing left smoldering.
and i want to call on you as a mistress,
rolling, shifting, regressing, extending —
tending to separate limbs on a naughty, nestling whim,
draped oh-so casually around my waist…
\yes, you and your familiar floorboards,
singing to me all shy-like, splintering and shaking me loose like a cable-knot.
in my dreams i come to you in lace
and my eyes roll back into my head.
from between my thighs spills
a honey so thick and amber like the sun,
inside a pollen so potent it would drive the most practical of proletariates
mad with desire.
my tongue drips a sweet spit,
sighing down to a reservoir of holy water
just beyond the arch of a spine.
the tepid ooze is tainted finally
with a drop of my vitality —
falling into her like you used to fear you would
some animal’s den;
falling till the pellucid pool
has but a pinkish hue.